Friday, April 27, 2012

The following reviews ran in the K-W Record and Guelph Mercury this month.

Willis Earl Beal -
Acousmatic Sorcery (XL)

Two years ago, Willis
Earl Beal was spending lonely nights in Alberquerque, New Mexico, riding his
bicycle around town with a CD Walkman, listening to Bob Dylan, Tom Waits,
Jandek and Cat Power, falling in love with the nuances of their music. Though
he had no musical training, he started recording his own songs on primitive
home equipment—often employing pots and pans as percussion—and postered the
town, advertising his wares. One thing led to another, and now the formerly
homeless musician is releasing his debut album—a compilation of tracks he
recorded between 2007 and 2010—on the same label as Radiohead and Adele.

Beal’s music is,
predictably, primitive. It’s also charming. He has a rich, powerful, soulful
voice—unlike most lo-fi bedroom geeks—that powers songs like the plaintive
ballad “Monotony” or the bluesy, fierce field holler “Take Me Away.” His guitar
playing is negligible; it’s simply another sound source—along with what sounds
like a distorted kalimba, various toys and unidentifiable stringed
instruments—over which his compelling vocals, which are alternately fragile and
confident, can soar. Attempts at rapping don’t always work; Beal is less
interested in flow than in getting a lot of random phrases off his chest, but
he gives it his all.

There’s definitely an
element of outsider art: anyone captivated by Moondog, the street musician and
serious composer who dressed like a Viking on New York City streets in the
’50s, or by Daniel Johnston, the diagnosed schizophrenic songwriter who writes
heartbreaking pop songs, will find plenty to love here.

The appeal of
Acousmatic Sorcery isn’t just Beal’s particular back story, no matter how
interesting that may be. It’s the incongruous sound of someone who seems like
an old soul who is only beginning to discover his own talents, of someone with
rich life experience learning how to channel that artistically using whatever
means necessary, of a lonesome heart searching for connection through
creativity. He found it. (April 19)

Willis Earl Beal
plays the Drake in Toronto on Monday, April 30.

Download: “Take Me
Away,” “Evening’s Kiss,” “Ghost Robot”

Measha Brueggergosman
– I’ve Got a Crush on You (Kelp)

Canada’s only opera
celebrity (sorry, Ben Heppner) can be seen on weekly television judging
Canada’s Got Talent; she’s also a go-to person for CBC panels, gala shows and
as a Juno Award presenter. But if Canada knows her face (and her amazing hair),
they’re not likely to have actually heard her voice—Canucks aren’t known for
flocking to the opera. And so here is Measha Brueggergosman’s debut pop album,
recorded live in front of audiences in Halifax and her hometown of Fredericton,
with a band led by Aaron Davis (Holly Cole Trio) and a repertoire spanning spirituals,
Cole Porter classics, Maritime country ballads and a song as recent as Feist’s
“Cicadas and Gulls” (from her album Metals, which was released mere months
ago).

Predictably, the
results are a mixed bag—and sometimes downright bizarre. An opera singer doing
a reggae version of Gershwin’s “Embraceable You”? It’s as bad an idea as it
seems, which even Brueggergosman jokes about while ad libbing in the middle of
it: “You know I wouldn’t be doing this if I was white!” On the other hand, she
brings both operatic skill and earthy soul to P.E.I. songwriter Lennie
Gallant’s “Tonight I Drive You Home,” an uncomfortable song in which the
narrator stalks the drunk driver who killed her child, and gives him a lift
home from the bar. She also duets with Gallant on the traditional Acadian song
“Partons La Mer Est Belle,” putting her operatic rolled R’s to full effect on
the rollicking tune.

Another duet, with
fellow Fredericton native David Myles, is also the album’s only original
song—and it’s one of the few tracks here where Brueggergosman doesn’t sound
like she’s a circle in a square peg. The less said about the minor-key
interpolation of Ron Sexsmith’s “Secret Heart” or the over-the-top version of
Joni Mitchell’s “Both Sides Now,” the better.

Genre leaps aren’t
easy to pull off—especially so many at once on your first time out, no matter
who you are. (April 19)

Dan Auerbach of the
Black Keys was born in 1979, just more than a decade after Dr. John’s debut
album, Gris Gris, a classic slice of psychedelic New Orleans voodoo weirdness.
It’s safe to say that most people who weren’t around in 1968 only know Dr. John
as a New Orleans institution who shows up in The Band’s Last Waltz movie and at
any event celebrating his hometown’s musical heritage.

Which is why Locked
Down, produced by Auerbach, is being hailed as a return to the psychedelic
quartet of albums that kicked off Dr. John’s career before he dropped “the
Night Tripper” part of his name and started scoring sunny AM radio hits like
“Such a Night.” It’s not, if only because it’s hard to top the trippy outré
meanderings of those albums. It does retain that sense of mystery and
atmosphere, anchoring it to steady funk rhythms. But more importantly, Locked
Down is an astounding record that is miles ahead of anything Dr. John—or for
that matter, today’s stadium rock star Auerbach—has been involved with in a
very long time.

Locked Down is, as
can be expected, rooted in syncopated, stuttering New Orleans funk rhythms;
drummer Max Weissenfeldt (Heliocentrics) almost steals this entire show. What
is not expected is that Dr. John avoids his trademark piano stylings entirely;
instead, Auerbach puts him in front of various organs and vintage electric
pianos, which immediately alters the sonic atmosphere. Behind him are bold,
bottom-heavy horn sections, jazzy bass, gospel backing vocals and African
percussion—and of course, Auerbach’s own guitar. He stays largely in the
background, but when he does clear space for a guitar solo, he channels
everything he has into concise, lyrical passages that speak volumes with few
notes. With every production choice Auerbach makes here, the man is nothing if
not tasteful.

As for Dr. John
himself? He sounds as sly as he ever has. If he’s either bemused or invigorated
by the youngsters willing to indulge his weird side, he’s not letting on—he’s
the same character he’s been since day one. He’s certainly not phoning it in,
and with all songs credited to the entire studio band, he’s happy to be a team
player: both sides bring out the best in each other.

Every year some
geezer teams up with a young hotshot and attempts to make a comeback record.
Few succeed. This one soars. (April 26)

Download: “Locked
Down,” “Getaway,” “Big Shot”

Druckfarben – s/t
(independent)

Prog rock may well be
the last uncool genre of music. Sure, acts like Battles, Dungen and Deerhoof
have given virtuosity and technical triumphs a new, cool, edge, but barely
anyone dares to dip back into the ’70s back catalogue of Gentle Giant or
Emerson, Lake and Palmer. (Outside of people who know who Porcupine Tree is,
the only popular example that comes to mind is the Decemberists’ Hazards of
Love, easily the least loved album by that beloved band.)

Toronto’s Druckfarben
couldn’t care less. Their timewarp of a debut album sounds like it was made
before Trevor Horn produced a Yes album, before the death of the bass solo,
before Rush started writing pop songs. For that alone, this is one ballsy band.
Druckfarben’s members have day jobs as part of Classic Albums Live, where they
tour theatres across North America playing complete albums by Led Zeppelin, the
Beatles, Pink Floyd, etc. They met while performing two Yes albums (Close to
the Edge and The Yes Album)—not one of Classic Albums Live’s more commercially
successful performances, but their chemistry inspired them to strike out with
original material. This is first and foremost a labour of love.

The players are
exceptional: the shredding guitars, the jazzy drums, the stabbing Hammond
organ, the operatic vocal chops, the unexpected acoustic ballad “Nonchalant.”
And yet despite that proliferation of talent, Druckfarben are shockingly tasteful:
even the noodly guitar parts are inserted as intrinsic parts of the
arrangement, not just an excuse to wank. If this is your thing, it’s really
your thing. Druckfarben is the brave band that redefines retro for a grossly
underserved niche audience. (April 12)

Download: “Dead Play
Awake,” “Nonchalant,” “Influenza”

Melanie Fiona - The
MF Life (Universal)

Most Canadians hadn’t
heard of Melanie Fiona before she won a Grammy last month; indeed, many
Canadians still haven’t heard of this Toronto singer. But in her not-so-secret
life, she’s been signed to a record deal by the man who discovered the Wu-Tang
Clan, was once in a band with Drake, is signed to Jay-Z’s management company,
opened for Kanye West in Europe, wrote songs for Rihanna, and duetted with
Cee-Lo Green, John Legend and the Roots. Now her second album is packed with
future hits ready to introduce her to the rest of the world.

Most new artists
stumble on one sound and are told to stick with it; Fiona clearly didn’t get
that memo from her label execs. The MF Life is the sound of an artist who
obviously shares a deep love for both her parents’ R&B record collection as
well as her own contemporaries; for every bluesy vamp like “Bones” (the kind
Amy Winehouse would have loved to have sunk her teeth into) or Stevie Wonder
homage like “Watch Me Work,” there’s a sombre, sci-fi groove ala The Weeknd (“4
a.m.”) or a bombastic, ballsy pop song like “Change the Record,” which pits
Fiona’s powerhouse vocals against the piano chords from Heart’s “Alone” and
thunderous drums worthy of John Bonham. And then there are the big rock guitar
solos on “Break Down These Walls” balanced by the ukulele reggae—don’t laugh,
it works—of “Can’t Say I Never Loved You.”

Is there anything
Melanie Fiona can’t do? Not with a voice like that—one listen to the
breathtaking ballad “Wrong Side of a Love Song,” and you’ll think Whitney
Houston was an amateur.

Ironically, the
natural splendour of her voice might work against her. As she admitted to the
Globe and Mail recently, she’s had music biz people tell her that she should
use Auto-Tune because radio won’t play her if she sounds too, ahem, soulful.
That’s why her duet with Auto-Tune king T-Pain, “6 a.m.,” is almost comical,
hearing her scold and sing circles around a guy who sounds like a philandering
robot.

The highs of The MF
Life last for at least half the record; the other half doesn’t meet such high
standards, but it’s a safe bet that Melanie Fiona has enough singles here to
dominate radio and awards shows for the next 12 months. The secret’s out.
(April 5)

The Hunger Games is
the darkest teen movie to ever become a massive success, so it’s only natural
that the soundtrack is equally ominous. Opening track (and closing credit
number) “Abraham’s Daughter,” by Arcade Fire, sets the tone: minor key, martial
drums, harpsichord, Regine Chassagne’s childish voice cooing a haunting melody,
guitar feedback and no sign of a happy ending. Better yet, instead of cannon
drums and piercing synths, the arrangement here is heavy without being
bombastic—it doesn’t need to beat you over the head to hammer home its point.

The soundtrack was produced
by T-Bone Burnett, the man behind the Robert Plant and Alison Krauss album and
the O Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack; his rootsy pedigree means that Arcade
Fire are one of the only rock acts here. (The less said about whatever it is Kid Cudi
is up to here, the better.) Most of these artists are definitely from the rural
backyard of Hunger Games protagonist Katniss Everdeen, and not the posh, urbane
Capitol. The Secret Sisters’ dustbowl harmonies appear on the second track, and
set the tone for much of the lineup to follow: Neko Case, Carolina Chocolate
Drops, Punch Brothers, the Decemberists, and the Civil Wars. They all
contribute songs consistent with the theme and mood of the film—this is the
rare soundtrack that sounds like it was assembled with creative care, rather
than arranged by competing business interests. (Strange, then, that other than
the Arcade Fire track, none of it appears in the movie.)

Even superstars like
Miranda Lambert and Maroon 5 step out of their comfort zone and into the
disquieting paranoia of the script—and they do it more successfully than Glen
Hansard (of the Frames and Swell Season), who offers a lame punk song where he
comes off like a righteous emo teenager, singing lines like, “Should I kill you
with my soul?” The biggest star here is Taylor Swift, who bats .500: “Safe and
Sound” is a note-perfect song for the project, and segues perfectly out of the
Neko Case track; “Eyes Open,” on the other hand, is overtly literal and sounds
like dialogue from the film set directly—and unsuccessfully—to music. (April 5)

This Acadian hip-hop
trio came out of nowhere—I mean, really, Acadian rap? Who saw that coming?—to
land their album Belmundo Regal on the shortlist of the 2010 Polaris Prize
alongside Broken Social Scene, the Sadies and Shad. The music was playful and
intriguing, but the lyrical flow, delivered in highly regionalized Franglais,
was obviously goofy, whether you understood what they were saying or not.

Radio Radio still
sound like their biggest hip-hop influence is Beck. But if that’s true, then
this is their Odelay, a scattershot pop pastiche that pulls in smooth
saxophone, distorted accordions, AutoTune vocals, Krautrock, electro reggae,
even blues. There’s precious little that most hip-hop fans would recognize—but
that works in Radio Radio’s favour, as they’re clearly not trying to play
anyone’s game but their own. But is that game any fun? For every wildly
inventive juxtaposition, there are two more WTFs waiting around the corner.

Radio Radio get full
points for originality, and Havre de Grace is exponentially more interesting
than its predecessor, but they’re still a hard band to love. A bit of a
blunderbuss, Jack White might say. (April 26)

Download: “Gong
Hotel,” “Y’en a qui connais,” “Galope”

Sagot – Piano Mal
(Simone)

Montreal is home to
the apocalyptic, brooding instrumental rock band Godspeed You Black Emperor.
It’s also a town that, like any francophone metropolis, loves Serge Gainsbourg.
Julien Sagot thinks those two musical personalities should get together more
often.

On Piano Mal, Sagot
alternates between hushed crooning, sinister intonation (in French), and
sitting back to let his cinematic instrumental tendencies take over, while his
music draws on the darker side of French chanson, spaghetti westerns, art rock,
and even white noise soundscapes—"S.O.S. Panda" is a mix of early Pink
Floyd and Montreal sound artist Tim Hecker. Sometimes Sagot slides into a
jaunty pop song, albeit in a minor key; sometimes he surrenders to stunningly
beautiful abstraction, content to just bathe in sound. On “Un Vielle Taupe,” he
strikes up a piano polka with what sounds like the Seven Dwarfs on backing
vocals.

Sagot’s day job is as
the percussionist in the Polaris Prize-winning group Karkwa, and this album was
made with essential help from Patrick Watson’s guitarist Simon Angell. The
creativity heard here, however, dwarfs both men’s other projects.

Piano Mal is
consistently surprising, stunning and captivating—not just for its daring, but
because Sagot makes it all work as a natural whole. It’s easily one of the best
Canadian albums of the year; let’s hope Canadians outside of Quebec get to hear
it. (April 19)

Download: “Piano Mal,”
“Un Vielle Taupe,” “Fevrier”

John Southworth and
Andrew Downing – Easterween (Sud de Valeur)

Some projects defy
description by anyone who was not intimately involved in the project. That’s
why it’s best to just quote from the official bio when discussing this bizarre
yet beautiful cabaret pop project from Toronto songwriter John Southworth and
arranger Andrew Downing.

In their words, this
is about “A 500-year-old magician. A ruthless, multinational egg corporation. A
love story between a Hasidic girl and an Amish boy. A band of sauciers and
dumpling bakers. An egg-hunt of cosmic proportions to save us all from eternal
winter. A 21st-century metaphysical fertility tale set to 19th-century
surreal street-cabaret songs accompanied by a seven-piece orchestra of brass,
wood and strings.”

You follow? No, I
don’t blame you. But the hallucinatory brainstorming that went into what is
supposedly some kind of narrative extends to the music as well, which swings
and soars and should appeal to anyone with a soft spot for oddball show tunes.
Southworth has always been a fine pop writer, but this is a major compositional
leap for him: these are not just pop or folk songs set to small orchestral
arrangements. He toys with tempo, writes broad melodic themes, and taps into
Old World influences of every stripe. His voice shepherds the potentially
ungainly plot with the animated warmth of a classic Disney narrator.

This is undoubtedly
the most ambitious thing Southworth—or, for that matter, any other Toronto
singer/songwriter in recent memory—has done. It would be underselling his
talents to say it’s a minor miracle, but, really, who saw this coming? (April
5)

The retail sales
sticker on this album boasts that it features “members of She & Him.” Well,
duh. M. Ward’s role as one half of that commercially successful—Zooey Deschanel
being the other—kept him busy, with no less than three albums in three years,
including a Christmas album, which you could buy with or without an
accompanying toque, mits and wrapping paper. Thankfully, it didn’t distract him
from his prime directive. The increased activity obviously rejuvenated him, and
A Wasteland’s Companion is one of the most compelling collections in his
discography.

Recorded in eight
studios and featuring members of Sonic Youth, Devotchka, Dr. Dog, and PJ Harvey's
band, the album is remarkably cohesive, touching on ’50s rock’n’roll, ’60s
psychedelic folk, and ’70s singer/songwriters. On the surface, Ward is another
in a long line of sad sack guys with acoustic guitars—but Ward is far ahead of
his peers, as a guitarist, as an intimate vocalist just on the right side of
raspy, as a stunning producer, and for speaking volumes with few words. He has
the good humour here to mock his crowded milieu with the song “Me and My
Shadow,” about a singer jealous of a more successful doppelganger thwarting the
narrator’s ambitions.

Until now, Ward’s
strengths have sometimes suffered from being too subtle. Not anymore: A
Wasteland’s Companion is full of vivid sound, a diverse collection that finds
him at his most fuzzed-out and rollicking, as well as burying himself in
angelic harmonies and wistful string arrangements. “The First Time I Ran Away”
marks Ward as one of the few musicians able to successfully conjure the legacy
of Nick Drake; “Watch the Show” sounds like Sonic Youth reinvented as a
rockabilly band. “Primitive Girl” is more anthemic than Ward has ever been,
with a cascading piano countermelody and Deschanel providing perfect wordless
backing vocals. (She also appears as a duet partner on “Sweetheart.”) And it’s
unlikely you will hear a more beautiful set of music this year than the last
four songs on this album, concluding with the heavenly “Pure Joy.” (April 12)

Download: “Me and My
Shadow,” “Watch the Show,” “Crawl After You”

Jack White -
Blunderbuss (Third Man)

Jack White has never
lacked a creative outlet. When he gets bored, he just starts another band. He
left a country band to start the minimalist garage rock duo the White Stripes;
when that seemed limiting, he formed a songwriting partnership with an old
friend in the Raconeteurs, and then jumped behind the drums and enlisted a
fiery young female singer for the psychedelic stadium rock band The Dead
Weather. So what does he do on a record under his own name?

Not surprisingly,
much of the same. There’s not much new territory here for White, and without
the creative tension of his other projects, it’s missing many of the sparks
that ignite his other albums. That’s no slight to his new crew of musicians.
For all the hullaballoo about his recent Saturday Night Live appearance with
two bands—one all-female, one all-male—it’s the women who get the vast majority
of the work here, including ace drummer Carla Azar and piano player Brooke
Waggoner. White’s talented enough to play every part on this album himself, but
he needs players of his own calibre to capture the sound of sweat in the
studio.

Blunderbuss—a title
that the dictionary defines as “ostensibly wide-ranging but poorly focused and
ineffective”—may be slightly disappointing, but Jack White on an off day can
still school thousands of other rockers on how to write a song, how to play
guitar, how to pace an album and how to channel the history of rock’n’roll in
the breadth of any given song. It’s frankly impossible for a man like that to
make a bad record. (April 26)

Monday, April 23, 2012

Levon Helm passed away this week at the age of 71. He was the lone American in The Band, perhaps the most influential Canadian rock band of all time. He was an innately soulful drummer who eschewed the flash and crash of so many of his peers in the late ’60s and ’70s, earning the eternal respect, if not awe, of every drummer I’ve ever known.

Why? The only example you’ll ever need is his groove on “Up on Cripple Creek”—not only is that song incredibly funky, but the reason it’s so beautiful and perfect is that he doesn’t hit his cymbals once. He doesn’t need to. Most drummers employ cymbals as punctuation marks; everything Levon played was so inherently eloquent that there was no need to dress it up.

The Band is an enormous part of rock music history (they made the Beatles jealous); specifically of American music history (they invented the genre now known as Americana); even more specifically, of Southern Ontario and Toronto music history. Levon was the link that his Canuck pals had to the musical traditions of the deep American south that they were so fascinated with. Levon grew up watching carnival shows, gospel music, blues, R&B, backwoods country music, Elvis Presley’s first tour—anything and everything. He came from a world that seemed a century away in 1968, the year Music From Big Pink came out, a year full of modernist flurry, psychedelia and political assassinations.

The rest of The Band were also gentlemen out of time, but none of them grew up amidst the cultural riches that Levon did. Together they made music at once rooted in tradition—which, really, is not hard for anyone of any time to do, regardless of trends—but that also sounded like nothing else, past, present or future. It was, and is, weird music, made by a group who had played every dive along the eastern seaboard backing up a B-list rockabilly star, and then large theatres with a beloved artist considered The Voice of a Generation. Left to their own devices, they got up to entirely different mischief.

It’s hard to separate the music of The Band from the legend that comes with it. Like their peers the Grateful Dead, however, if you don’t get The Band, you really don’t get The Band. (And I, for one, have never got the Grateful Dead.) If you don’t, you stand in opposition to the orthodoxy of critical verbiage about their legacy, including dubious claims about Robbie Robertson’s “surreal” lyrics (really?) or about how Richard Manuel is every bit as soulful a singer as Ray Charles (again, really? I’ve always wondered if any African American writer would dare to agree).

Most Band newbies start with The Last Waltz, which is inspiring and often exhilarating—and yet just as often bloated and self-important. Martin Scorsese’s film is revered, and yet Levon thought it betrayed almost everything The Band was built on. It was Levon who fought to get Muddy Waters in and Neil Diamond out, and it was Levon who left the experience angrier than ever at Robbie Robertson, for whom Levon thought the whole project was a giant ego trip. It didn’t help that, as Levon points out, Scorsese portrays the rest of The Band as mumbling, dazed bumpkins, and Robertson the sole genius.

Levon spouted off about this and much more in his 1992 autobiography This Wheel’s On Fire. There are very few rock autobiographies worth reading, but Levon’s is near the top. Not because of the dirt he dishes, including plenty of venom directed at Robertson. Instead, it’s because even at his most bitter, Levon is still a perfect Southern gentleman, unfailingly polite even as he’s tearing strips off people (mostly Robertson) he feels hindered The Band from fulfilling their potential. I haven’t read the book in over 10 years, yet I remember it vividly, especially his portraits of growing up in Turkey Scratch, Alabama, of meeting and touring with Ronnie Hawkins, and of life at the height of The Band’s fame, watching the group fall apart in a series of bad deals and addictions. If you want to understand why Levon is revered, you need to not only hear him play, you must read his book; it’s as much a part of his appeal as anything he ever put to tape. You don’t even have to like The Band to love it.

Likewise, there are some pure objective truths about The Band’s music. On “Up on Cripple Creek,” the alchemy they weave together is incredible—especially Levon and keyboardist Garth Hudson, as we see on this clip.

Now strip away the rest of The Band, and just look at Levon. He broke the mould for rock drumming, introducing jazz and funk into roots rock and soul in ways that none of the other drum-hero showboaters (Moon, Bonham, Peart, etc.) would ever dare; even jazz lover Charlie Watts never dared get too complicated for the Rolling Stones. Levon took what the Motown drummers began and twisted it inside out until it was syncopated bliss, until it sounded like life was, indeed, a carnival. Look and learn.

In one of the most fascinating stories to emerge the week of Levon’s death, Robbie Robertson told the press that he visited Levon in the hospital, days before his death. There’s no sign the two had talked since they were inducted into the Canadian Music Hall of Fame at the 1988 Juno Awards; Levon sat out the 1994 induction of The Band to the Rock’n’Roll Hall of Fame, specifically citing old wounds with Robertson as the reason. Levon’s book suggests that there was little, if any, contact between the two since the release of The Last Waltz 10 years prior to the Juno ceremony. And yet even Robertson’s statement seems carefully worded: “I sat with Levon for a good while, and thought of the incredible and beautiful times we had together.” He doesn’t actually say they spoke; he says that he sat with him. Was Levon conscious at the time? Did he carry his grudges to his death? Was this some way of Robertson making peace with himself more than it was about Levon?

No matter, that’s the business of two men and no one else’s. The only other surviving member of The Band now is Garth Hudson, a man whose musical brilliance is matched only by his eccentricity, and who continues to make music regularly with anyone who asks, high profile or otherwise, including Neko Case, the Sadies and Doug Paisley. Robertson rarely makes music anymore.

In the end, it was Levon that people would flock to see, travelling from far and wide to attend his Midnight Rambles in Woodstock, N.Y. It was Levon that fans wanted to know, wanted to witness. And it is Levon, the American, the catalyst to creating one of Canada’s greatest musical entities ever, that we will all miss the most.

For the finest obituary of the man I’ve seen this week, I refer you to Jason Schneider’s piece for Exclaim. I co-wrote Have Not Been the Same with him; I strongly recommend you read his other music book about The Band and that generation of Canadian groundbreakers, Whispering Pines.

Monday, April 16, 2012

There’s a certain kind of music geek who is perpetually in love with British punk and post-punk pop, the days of Stiff Records, Elvis Costello in his prime, early Pretenders and weirdos like Ian Dury. Not surprisingly, then, this kind of Mojo magazine fetishist is also in love with Nick Lowe, who had a direct hand in all of those elements: as a label owner, as a producer, and as an artist.

I’ve never been one of those geeks; though I appreciate that scene, I’m maybe five years too young for it for that stuff to have any particularly nostalgic pull. And if I’m going to listen to an Elvis Costello record, even though I love the early singles I usually reach for King of America or Blood and Chocolate. I like Lowe’s one big hit, “Cruel to Be Kind,” as much as anyone, but I never dove in much deeper than that. My loss.

His second wind, starting with 1994’s The Impossible Bird, had made him a whole new wave of fervent fans. I didn’t catch up until I heard 2002’s aptly titled The Convincer. That album opens with the song "Homewrecker," where Lowe’s chocolate-covered croon savours every word of the opening a cappella line: You look like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth—there is then a long pregnant pause over a single sustained organ chord—but I know it would. It’s incredibly sexy. Staring at Lowe’s handsome visage on the album cover, butter isn’t the only thing melting in that song—so is my heterosexuality.

Lowe’s 2011 album The Old Magic comes on the heels of a comprehensive career compilation (Quiet Please: The New Best of Nick Lowe), a reissue of 1979’s beloved Labour of Lust, and vinyl reissues of recent work. And up against that legacy, it still holds up as one of the strongest collection of songs he’s ever written and performed.

I had the privilege of talking to Lowe for Maclean’s magazine: the full Q&A is here. Read that first before you continue here.

Below are some deleted scenes from the conversation. Nick Lowe and his band play the Phoenix club in Toronto on Monday, April 23.

On age:

When I was 18 and left home to join a band, it was out of the question that you would be doing this into your 30s. It was a ridiculous concept. But when I was a youngster, I always wanted to be old. I always liked older people’s music. When I was a kid I could never make myself sound old. I felt I had to wait around until I was able to sing something that had a bit of weight to it.

You also turned grey quite early, didn’t you? It looks like it in the video for "Cruel to Be Kind."

I did. I got a streak in the front and I thought, man, that looks good. Happy day! Unfortunately, it got more and more white until finally the whole lot went. It didn’t fall out, though.

Did any manager or record label try to convince you to dye it, and squeeze yourself into tight jeans?

No. They wouldn’t have got very far if they did.

I knew that you were at one point Johnny Cash’s son-in-law and that you remained close after your divorce and that you wrote "The Beast in Me" for his first ’90s comeback album. But I only realized recently that he covered your songs as early as 1980.

Yes, he did a song of mine called "Without Love." He made it his own, and now I do it like him. The old songs you do, it’s funny how they change without you realizing that you’re changing the way you perform them. You only realize it when you encounter the original again.

What, if any, kind of stock-taking did you do when the recent reissues came out? Do you ever listen to your records? Were you forced to?

I was forced to. When I listen to the old records, I could hear really good ideas, but I’d think, ‘Why did you do that bit?’ And especially, ‘Why did you do it again, later in the song?!’ I could tell I was young and in a hurry and got the thing finished. Whereas now, I’m much more intent on stripping it down.

I’ve heard you say that you purposely underproduce your recent albums so that the songs stand on their own and some brilliant ear will recognize their inherent genius and cover the song. How often has that actually happened? I know that Rod Stewart did “Shelly My Love.”

I’ve had some good covers over the years.

Off the recent records, though?

No, unfortunately. Englebert Humperdinck did “You Inspire Me”—though it was a particularly unfortunate version. (Laughs) But, you know, thanks, Englebert! A lot of younger people do my more recent stuff, but they’re not big hits. And then of course, songs like “Peace, Love and Understanding” have been covered—well, not hundreds of times, but…

I’ve heard you say that you don’t write in character or do personal songs. But come on, surely you must.

I don’t. I will stick in something somebody said, but I never really go out to explain, “Then she did this, and can you believe it.” I can tell when people are doing that and it goes in one ear and out the other. The minutiae of people’s situations doesn’t interest me. I like hearing a familiar object viewed from an unusual angle—that’s more my approach. But I do know what I’m singing about: I don’t put my diary to music, but I know what it feels like to be mistreated or to feel blue or to feel extremely happy.

So nobody listens to a song like “Lately I’ve Let Things Slide” and thinks, maybe he is letting things slide?

I suppose that one I certainly dug into some personal experience. But there again, it’s viewed from a distance. I am a hack, a Tin Pan Alley hack.

Your last album, from five years ago, is called At My Age and has several songs about being surprised to fall in love again: "Hope for Us All," "Better Man." You had just recently remarried, and surely people are going to look at that and read a lot into your personal life?

I suppose so. If they do, they do behind my back. I don’t encounter much speculation. I don’t think people who like what I do are looking for insights into my personal situation. I think it’s just good tunes—if they think they’re good, which I hope they do.

You’ve been close to big things since the beginning: your first band, Brinsley Schwarz opened for arena rockers in the '70s, and obviously you produced Elvis Costello, and you are old friends with Huey Lewis, who had the biggest band in the U.S. in 1985, when he did a song with you. What did you learn about what you didn’t want from their experiences?

I never really wanted fame, other than when I was a kid starting out. I thought I wanted that. We had an experience with my band—which is quite well documented—when our management got us a gig at the Fillmore East and they chartered a plane of journalists and flew them to see this show, where we were on a bill with Van Morrison, who was on fire—he had just released Moondance. And everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. It was awful and incredibly embarrassing. I’ve had occasion to fall to my knees and give thanks for that experience, because it gave me an early lesson in the vagaries of chasing fame, and how it’s much better to try and tread the fine path between keeping your head down, keeping your head just below the parapet enough that you can pop up every so often when you want to tell people something, and people won’t forget who you are, but they also won’t be nudging you in the supermarket and peering in your basket to see what you’re eating. I never wanted any of that. Huey and Elvis absolutely love it, they thrive on it. I never wanted to be public property. I was more of a snob. I thought I was a bit better than that!